


Ghost

by orphan_account



Category: The Maze Runner Series - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Ambiguous/Open Ending, Bittersweet, Following Thomas throughout the years, Friendship, Gen, Medium!Thomas, Mentions of Drunk Driving, Mentions of Gally - Freeform, Newt - Freeform, Newt befriends Thomas, Thomas - Freeform, Thomas is a medium, ghost!Newt, mentions of Alby, mentions of Brenda, mentions of Minho, mentions of Teresa, newt is dead, platonic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-16
Updated: 2020-01-16
Packaged: 2021-02-27 03:35:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,017
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22280404
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Get up, save faceFind your way back to the graveYou'll never find your way back homeYou're a ghost
Kudos: 6





	Ghost

The first time he meets Newt, he's ten. He's huddled up in the backyard, hidden under the shadows from the treetops looming over his small frame, as the sunset is coloring the sky in breathtaking, mind blowing colors. He's curiously observing blue mingle with red, like he's done every so often before and is consumed by the sheer beauty of it, that he doesn't even seem to notice the person showing up.

And when Thomas finally does seem to notice him, he can't help but wonder how he got here, when his parents would've noticed it too. Yet the boy's smiling soothingly, despite the neverending sadness in his warm, glowing eyes. For unknown reasons, he can't quite understand, he trusts the stranger. He slowly sits up and brushes grass off of his dirty knees, his shirt sticking uncomfortably to his back, as he's staring at the fair haired boy with newfound bravery. 

His parents both warned him to not talk to any strangers whatsoever and he's also aware of the fact that he's older than him, but Thomas can't help it. ”What's your name?” He cautiously asks. The boy is quiet for a short period of time, the only thing he's able to hear is the birds chirping faintly in the background, before he nods contently.

”Newt”

_Newt. It's a pretty name_ , according to Thomas and if he’s gotta be honest, he also looks like a Newt, except he hasn't met any people with that certain name yet. He smiles fondly. 

”My name's Thomas”

From afar, Marisol is anxiously watching Thomas sitting under the tree, enthusiastically talking to someone or _something_ she can't see. She faces her husband, his eyes unreadable. She daringly opens her mouth to say something about it, well aware he's seeing it too, but he shuts her down.

”Just let him”

-

He's in the kitchen, strongly occupied by his coloring book his mom bought him some time ago, when Newt plops down on the chair next to his. Thomas briefly glances in his direction and smiles, while he grabs some of the other crayons lying on the table. Newt is watching him intently.

”What's your favorite color?” He slowly asks. He turns to stare at the spectacular flower Thomas is coloring. His brow is slightly furrowed in concentration, the question clearly getting the better of him.

”Blue”, is the final answer two minutes later and the red crayon easily slips out of his hand, just as he decides to color the background, rather than the flower itself. ”What's yours?”

Thomas’ childish passion is more than just making Newt’s eyes light up with joy and he scoots closer to him. ”Mine is blue too,” he answers truthfully and Thomas freezes. He looks him straight in the eye, not missing a heartbeat.

”Are you saying that because I like blue too?”

”No, I've liked it for a long time and it reminds me of my mother,” he promises softly and Thomas sighs in relief. _That's good_ , considering other people have lied to him, only to get to know him and Newt doesn't give off that kind of vibe.

Marisol grabs the salad and tuna from the fridge and makes her son a well deserved sandwich, when she overhears the conversation. For a moment she's letting herself stare at him, gesturing frantically with his arms and eagerly explaining stuff he's been asked. 

Even though there's no one at the table, apart from him. She sighs softly and neatly places it next to Thomas’ coloring book, revealing the tuna sandwich. He hums in delight and grabs it with both hands. She ruffles his hair, earning a quiet giggle from him.

”Who're you talking to, sweetheart?”

”Newt! Can't you see him?” He exclaims innocently, his mouth stuffed with food and Marisol’s smile falters for a second, then she brushes it off with a crystal clear laugh. He's of course just eleven, no serious harm done with having invisible friends.

-

It's at school he accidentally overhears a conversation between other students, he isn't familiar with. And at the beginning, he doesn't even want to admit that he's eavesdropping in the first place, cause it's not his kind of thing to do that – plus, the conversation has nothing to do with him. Except they're talking about invisible friends and that subject is something he holds dear to his heart. 

More than it should. He hasn't told his parents or friends about Newt so far, mostly because they've heard him talk to him and because they always worry about him whenever he's talking to him. And if there's one thing that really bugs him, it's people being worried about him. He discreetly moves the chair closer to their table and keeps quiet.

”-Not normal to have that at this age,” he hears a girl with short, dark curly hair retort and the tall, dark haired boy close to her laughs tauntingly at whatever someone else from the group commented.

He swallows thickly and glances at the floor, as if it's the most interesting thing in the world right now. The taunting laugh is still ringing in his ears and the blood rushes to his cheeks out of pure shame. He suddenly feels embarrassed of Newt and regrets he met him at all, that he was so foolish to keep the contact to someone only he can see. 

Sure, they've known each other for two years now, but he's still older than him, so why can't he find someone at his own age? The thought crosses his mind more than he wants to admit, but he's always keeping it in the dark, because everything else is more important and prioritized. 

He returns to his rightful seat and concentrates on the english book they were given by their teacher. _This is more important than the stupid conversation they got going on_ , he reminds himself and nods sternly. A chilly breeze is stirring through the thin fabric of his shirt and when a shadow is hovering over him, he spots Newt in front of the table.

”What's wrong?”

_Oh_. Newt knows that something's nagging at him. And when Thomas finally allows himself to meet his welcoming eyes, it feels like he can see right through him, as if he’s an open book.

It should scare him deep down, he's aware, but instead he hates the feeling. He's solely doing it because he trusts Newt, and has to put his trust into him. He beams bravely at him for a mere second and scribbles down a sentence on the piece of paper.

”Nothing,” he reassures smoothly, and to him it's more of a promise than a little white lie.

-

He's sitting still on the bed with a blanket wrapped tightly around him and surrounded by utter darkness. The curtains aren't helping at all, the white glimpses from the lightning seeping aimlessly through and he jolts, whenever the loud, crashing thunder follows. The rain drums violently against his window and he’ll do everything in the world to shut off his thoughts, but the shadows appear to be alive, making it all that more frightening.

He knows that it's silly, considering a thirteen year old shouldn't be afraid of thunder or lightning, but he can't help it, _not now_. He closes his eyes and gulps down air, desperately trying to ignore the thunder and focus on the peaceful rain. It helps for a while and he unexpectedly gains control of his breathing, until another immense lightning strikes. His room is lit for not even about five seconds and he's forced to open them.

_It's helpless_ , he thinks and his eyes are stinging, a clear sign he's about to cry, to his own damned frustration. ”Newt?” He croaks hoarsely, in an attempt to see, if he's going to show up, is in dire need of his presence. Newt hasn't been there for a few days now and he's starting to grow worried for him.

”Yes?” The voice is closer to him than expected and he can sense the faint outline of Newts silhouette near the edge of his bed. The room is exploited by the lightning for the upteempth time and if he didn't know any better, it looks like Newt’s dying, though he ignores it. He doesn't want to consider that option or get near that _no-no_ part of his mind. Instead he wriggles closer to him.

”I'm scared,” he quietly admits and it feels good to admit it in front of someone. A reassuring smile replaces the usual neutral expression on the boy's gentle features and it appeases the adrenaline in his body.

”It's okay to be afraid, it's no shame. I used to be afraid of the dark and had trouble falling asleep when I was seventeen,” Newt softly replies and Thomas is taken aback by surprise, as he can't help but wonder if it's the first time he's admitted it to someone as well. A thought suddenly hits him and the bed creaks, while he leans towards the wall in a hurry.

He blindly guides his hand along, exclaiming a muffled victory and graces the switch with his fingertip as if it’s nothing. The glow is vaguely illuminating the room and making it less scary for him, easing the earlier turmoil. He turns his full attention towards Newt and an indescribable warmth is spreading throughout Thomas’ body: he looks proud.

-

Thomas carefully opens the door to his room and drops his bag on the floor. Newt is standing in the middle of his room by the window, basking in the light from the sunbeams that goes straight through him. For a second he's about to comment on it, but decides against it, knows it's best to leave it be. A lot of things have been bugging him lately and most of the thoughts are dealing with Newt.

Like how he still can see him. He's only an invisible friend to him and from what the other students said, when he was twelve, he should be long gone. No one else has indicated to Thomas that they're capable of seeing him, too. The questions are escalating rapidly, and it's only a matter of friggin' time before he's going to blow like a ticking time bomb.

Once he strongly considered telling his parents or even Teresa, knowing you should be able to trust them with something like that, without them judging you. He sighs softly and wraps his arms around himself, feeling like a weak, confused child, rather than someone at the age of fourteen. The more he thinks of it, the more realization kicks in that he and Newt never have given each other a hug or anything remotely close to it. 

The thought is odd in itself and he shuffles across the room, placing himself on his friend's left side. 

Newt is gazing longingly for something he can't put a name to yet and he clears his throat. He blinks a few times and lightly shakes his head to get him out of his haze, as he now observes Thomas. Newt offers him a fragile smile, something he rarely sees and he truly appreciates the small, important moments he's given with them.

”You want to say something,” he mumbles and inhales, before adding, ”what is it?”

”How come only I can see you?”

Newt’s eyes are darkening, something he’s blissfully unaware of, and he's watching him intently. His mouth is slightly agape in incredulity, never saw the question coming. It more than once seems like he wants to say something, but whenever he opens his mouth, he's at a loss for words and surrenders. Surrenders to silence. Thomas' mouth feels dry.

”Because you're … Special,” the answer only leads to more confusion and Thomas forces a tight smile. _Not good enough_ , he thinks bitterly, but nods. He accepts it for now.

Three days later, Newt disappears again. This time it's just with the intention of never returning. But Thomas doesn't know of that and the first days that pass him by, he's filled with dread and worry. Has anything happened to him? Where is he? What's he doing? Is he alright? 

As the days blend with the weeks and the weeks turn to months, Thomas slowly, but forcefully, forgets all about Newt. He erases all the memories they had together whatsoever and replaces them with new ones. He's too caught up with school, friends, activities and being your parents only son is a huge responsibility, seeing as they won't accept anything under B.

There’s another underlying reason as to why he forces himself to forget, too. _It hurts too much_.

-

He's eighteen, when he meets someone that knows Newt. He hasn't given the fair haired boy much thought throughout the last couple of years, if he’s gotta be honest. He’s been way too occupied with school, girlfriends and boyfriends, parties and other various things. It’s better this way, he decides. Forget the hurt, pain and loss, even though nothing will mend it.

A soft sigh leaves his lips and his eyes dart to some of the other students, placed in front of their own canvas with a colorful paint brush in one hand. It's their last lesson and the room is nauseatingly hot, the sweat clinging to his skin as if it depended on it. To make matters goddamn worse, his body is screaming for fresh air, feel the breeze ruffle his hair and cool his dampened skin. 

He allows himself to imagine the sun, warming his already clammy back, to hear the birds chitter from the vivid treetops, feel the grass crunching and tickling under your bare feet and all the vibrant, mesmerizing flowers, moving in a slow rhythm with the bright sky. His body is aching just by the thought of it and when he's about to open his eyes, someone interrupts his train of thought.

”He looked like my son,” a light, soft voice mumbles from his right side and for a second he's confused, until he glances at his own canvas. _Oh_.

”Your son, you say? What's his name?” He asks, visibly thrilled by the fact it's her son, and his enthusiasm is hard to miss, as he's watching her with admiration.

The unnerving silence is kicking and screaming at his consciousness, in the couple of minutes she isn't answering. ”Newt,” she whispers, her voice breaking, and it's first now he's aware of the mournful expression in her eyes. 

”He died nine years ago,” she adds reluctantly. In a blink of an eye she's staring back at him with distant, hardened eyes, before she turns around, her heels clicking faintly.

He glares at the canvas and focuses his dead-set concentration on only that. He has, unknowingly, painted Newt. His invisible friend, who in reality, is dead – without him suspecting a fucking thing. The thought's giving him the creeps and a shiver is running down his spine. He’s cold to the core as the empty, black eyes are staring right back into his own.

Now that he knows better, it feels like he's staring into the eyes of a ghost and not the friend he used to know. A deep, crimson wound has dried under the matted, sticky hair and it's a miracle he's only observing it now. It's the exact same with his hollow cheeks and dark bags under his eyes. When he was younger, he used to put his effort into Newt’s beauty – his prominent cheekbones, long eyelashes and his marked jaw.

Thomas feels betrayed and even though he doesn't want to be angry, he can't control his own feelings, to his own dismay. Where was Newt, when he needed him the most? His body is slightly shivering and he wets his trembling lips, as he tries to gain control of his shallow breathing. He feels lost, numb. But most importantly, it feels like there's a part of him missing, and the void is irreplaceable.

-

A year later he's at fault for a car accident, a night where it's too dark to see, he's beyond drunk and forgetting everything about the approaching car. It's his own fault, really, he knows that, and there's only him to blame for the accident and no one else. 

He doesn't expect himself to wake up, at least not alive. 

And when he does, to his own critical mind, he quickly realizes he's in the room where his body is. He's staring at his own fragile frame, too small for the large, white bed and the steady beeping noises from the medical ventilator, keeping him alive. 

The intense light is blinding him and out of the corner of his eye, he sees both Teresa, Minho, Brenda, Alby and Gally. They're sitting on five chairs spread out in the room, studying him with pale faces, their bodies drained from energy and eyes empty.

Grief courses through his veins, overshadowing everything else and in that moment, he feels nauseous and light headed. He can't stay in the exact same room like them for another second, too unbearable, and he easily floats through the wall. 

He ends up outside of the room and it’s as if an invisible burden is lifted from his chest, making him able to breathe again. He's about to continue down the hall, when he sees Newt, leaning against the wall opposite to his, like he has all the time in the world that he needs. 

Thoughts and emotions melt together as their eyes meet, and Newt smiles. 

He hasn't changed a bit and when he thinks further of it, Newt has always looked young, his appearance left untouched. It somewhat eases him inside, knowing that there's still something so simple, yet familiar about him. He daringly approaches him.

”What're you doing here?”

The overwhelming sadness is still haunting his eyes, but there's understanding hidden in the depth of it and Thomas knows better now, _thankfully_. 

”It's not your time yet,” Newt whistles thoughtfully and something's telling him it's more of a _' we'll meet again_ ’ than a _' goodbye '_. Thomas can live with that, knowing that Newt never really left him in the first place.


End file.
